Usually vicious street fighting is reserved for Friday and Saturday nights in Sydney town, where erstwhile males (and, on occasion, females) loaded like freight trains do battle under the moonlit sky to satiate the savage urge coded into their DNA.

On Sunday, conflict spilled onto the café latte-paved streets of the hipster haven known as Bondi. While its residents were deliciously sipping over-priced coffee and discussing the ins and outs of pick-and-mix dressing from four different decades, two best mates with fat wallets and power usually reserved for Harry Potter decided to resort to man’s other primal urge and beat the hell out of one another.

Seemingly the only thing missing from this ‘bro fight’ between Monsieurs Packer and Gyngell was the firm but loving hand of a motherly-type figure to separate them and remind them they are best friends and to stop being stupid.

While one might ponder the how and why of two very public figures playing fisticuffs in a very public place, you only have to look at your own history and remember all the times you slugged it out with your brother or best friend over things that make insignificance look insignificant. Few, if anyone, ever remembers why they got into the fight but all they know is that the part of their DNA that says ‘I’m right and he knows I’m right but won’t admit I’m right so I’m going to punch him til he admits I’m right’ kicked in and the teeth started to fly – regardless of whether it was in your own front yard or Grandma’s Christmas party.

The male desire to prove oneself right through violence is only trumped by his desire to use violence to get what the other bloke has, whether it be the female by his side or the two magic sticks that light fire.

In order to validate this, one only has to look at the history books and see that all wars were started because of either of the above or both. It’s in our DNA. History also shows that once the war is over the parties are friends again, which I believe is still the case with Jamie and David. Any bad blood between them will be washed away after a few beers and a couple of firings at Channel 9 for laughs. (I believe, according to the absent musketeer in all this, one Eddie MacGuire, they call these drunken comedy firings ‘bone-ings’.)

If nothing else, this validates to us lowly mortals that despite the money and power they wield, they are just like the rest of us and will regress to their inner 5-year-old to fight out who gets to play with the train set next.